


Cohabitation

by LectorEl



Series: Hound [3]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Damian is attached to Hound, Gen, Hound has issues, Ra's is so very creepy, boy shaped weapons are probably a bad idea, is it stockholm syndrome if you're doing it to yourself?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-25 10:43:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/638056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LectorEl/pseuds/LectorEl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lot can happen in five years.<br/>Or, Ra's, Hound, and all the bumps along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Paris

“Master?”  Hound asked, unable to suppress the note of confusion in his voice. The entire situation was outside of Hound’s experiences, and the change was upsetting. He’d been given a longer leash over time, as he’d proven his worth and faithfulness. But this was unprecedented.

“It’s a small task, pet,” Master said, amusement, as well as something darker, coloring his voice. “But I cannot risk it going awry. Paris is not so far from here.”

 _And you can’t have Ubu do it, why?_ The small part of his mind that had never entirely adjusted asked peevishly. Master would be appalled if he knew what blasphemy Hound so often caught himself thinking.

“Of course, Master,” Hound murmured. “When do I leave?”

“Soon. There is not much time left.” Master paused to run his hand through Hound’s long hair. “You may want to braid this. I would be disappointed if something happened.” He exited before Hound could reply, the door closing softly behind him. That was no less a command than any other Master had issued, regardless of phrasing. As with every other part of him, his hair did not belong to him. It belonged to his master, to do what he willed.

The Lazarus pit had no power to regrow hair. Hound’s hair was yet another bit of tactical maneuvering, a statement Master made to everyone who knew to look past the façade of weak passivity Hound wore. Hound’s hair was almost a goad, in that respect. A challenge. 

 _No one had ever gotten close enough to use his hair against him, no one had ever managed to cut or burn or tear it out._ _How good do you think my pet must be for that to be true? And how good do you think you are?_

Hound would never say it, but sometimes, Master’s sense of dramatics was nothing short of hilarious. He’d once cracked a rib suppressing his laughter during a meeting between Master and the representatives of the Cosa Nostra. And then there were times when Hound felt like he was living in a surreal version of a particularly low-budget wǔxiá film. This was absolutely one of them.

The fact that he was in Paris instead of China only added to the sense of unreality.

He stared at the sword he was being offered, and then at the man offering it. “Are you quite well?” he asked at last.

A duel. Of all the ridiculous things.

“I could have killed you a hundred times over since noon,” Hound said, batting the sword aside. “You cannot possibly think your odds would improve by arming me further.”

“It is a matter of honor. I cannot simply relinquish the box.” The man held the sword out to Hound once more.

“You are a fool,” Hound said, and if his irritation was less hidden than he’d intended, no one would know. The nerve strike knocked the man out before he could stop Hound, and down he went. Hound rifled through his clothes until he found the small, jeweled box Master had sent him to retrieve.

Then, because Hound had no orders not to, he dragged his unfortunate victim to the nearest hotel, and passed the concierge the contents of the man’s wallet to make sure he was off the street and not choking on his own vomit while recovering from the nerve strike. He told the concierge the man had passed out while drinking, because the stress of operating independently made him less kind than he should be.  

Master had told him to the operatives in Paris would begin withdrawing at sunrise, which left him with more than five hours between him and his return. Hound did not like Paris. It was noisy, and crowded, and disorganized. It made him think of things best left undisturbed.

Like the flash of yellow and black he’d been seeing from the corner of his eye for the past three blocks, followed by two men in torn denim clothing. Casually, without letting himself examine his actions, Hound walked into the same alley the flicker of yellow and black had fled to. Hound paused by the mouth of the alley, and at the last possible moment, stuck his leg out at shin level.

It was simply disgraceful, how poorly they fell. Hound nudged the one who had managed to slam his forehead against the concrete, raising an eyebrow at the impressive mess he’d made of his own nose. What were King Snake’s minions doing in Paris?

The girl in the black and yellow cape grinned at him, from her position on the fire escape, and flashed a thumbs up. “Thanks for the assist, gotta go!” she shouted over her shoulder as she scaled the ladder and vanished into the muggy Paris evening.

Hound stared at the spot where she’d disappeared from sight for far longer than he should have. “It was my pleasure, Robin,” he said, feeling oddly off balance.

 _What had happened to_ \- Hound cut that thought off, ruthlessly. Master’s interest in the detective aside, Hound had no reason to care about the well-being of the man’s children. It was not his place.

He succumbed to a moment of weakness, and let himself sag against the wall. He wanted to be home _now_ , away from the stresses of independent action and unfamiliar places. But he served his master, and not the other way around. His wishes did not come into it.

He hoped, though, that this sort of work would not be asked of him too often.


	2. Hound and The Maidens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fallout of Death and the Maidens in Hound Verse.

"Things cost," Hound said quietly, one hand rising to the calfskin collar at his throat. Like it was the simplest, most unremarkable thing in the world, and the most horrible. "Someone always has to pay."

Damian heard himself make a low, wounded noise, like a beaten dog, and hide himself further in Hound’s lap. “But why _you_?”

"Because it is, and that is the choice I made." Hound lifted his shoulders in a graceful imitation of a shrug. "I gave my word."

"So _break_ it,” Damian begged. “Grandfather is dead. Doesn’t that mean the contract’s through?”

"I promised to serve for the rest of my life, not the rest of my Master’s." Hound pet Damian’s back. Damian sniffed, holding back tears.

"Grandfather didn’t deserve you. Mother and her sister don’t either," Damian muttered into Hound’s neck.

"I gave my word," Hound repeated. "I have little enough to be proud without becoming an oath-breaker. Do not ask this of me."

Damian nodded miserably, and wrapped his hands in Hound’s hair. “It’s not right.”

"We live among assassins, Damian," Hound said, voice edged with rare humor. "Very little about our lives are right."

"One day…" Damian paused, glancing around the room for watchers. "One day, I’m going to be head of the league. Then you’ll serve me, won’t you?"

"If I am still alive, gladly." Hound pressed a kiss to the top of Damian’s head. "Keep such thoughts to yourself. They’re dangerous."

"You’re the only one I talk to. And you won’t tell, right?" Damian asked.

Hound hesitated, and nodded. “As long as my mistresses does not ask me about it directly. I can’t promise more than that.”

"I won’t ask. I’ll be careful," Damian promised. "You’ll live and I’ll live, and one day you’ll be _mine_ instead of Mother’s or Aunt's or Grandfather’s.”

"And may that blessed day come swiftly," Hound said in agreement, voice barely a whisper in the still air. "Speak no more of it."


	3. Lessons and Loyalty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was posted on tumblr a long time ago, and has been changed somewhat from the original version. I'm working on bringing some of the older Hound verse fics in line with my new plotline and canon, but some details may be a little out of place.

Hound wasn’t in the dojo. Damian stared blankly for several moments before the fact penetrated. Hound was _always_ in the dojo. In the year and a half Hound had been tasked with refining Damian’s swordsmanship, he had never been late or unprepared. Every afternoon at three o’clock, Damian had training, and every afternoon at three o'clock, Hound was seated in the dojo, their weapons lain out in preparation.

Had he upset Hound somehow? Was this punishment for last night? Damian was willing to accept that, but he hadn’t thought Hound was upset. Damian was _good_ at reading Hound’s moods. Only grandfather was better. He’d thought Hound had been – happy, almost, sitting patiently as Damian stood much closer than was proper to stitch shut the laceration he’d accidentally opened on Hound’s arm. There’d been something soft in Hound’s expressionless face, a sort of shy wonder in his usually shuttered eyes. He'd hugged Damian, even, at the end of the lesson. Damian had done that. _Damian_ had made Hound happy.

_So where was he?_

Damian fretted away the lesson’s hour, waiting for Hound to appear. Then another hour, and a half hour after that. Not a sight. Not even a note delivered second-hand. Silence. An unfamiliar feeling of dread crept into his stomach. Grandfather. It must be. Nobody else could have commanded Hound to break their meeting. Why? There was plenty left for Hound to teach. Damian bit his lip, then smoothed his face into an imitation of Hound’s careful blankness.

Damian traveled down the empty hallways, acutely conscious of the silent weight of invisible eyes. This was Grandfather’s domain, and for the first time the thought brought fear instead comfort. Within these walls, Grandfather’s rule was absolute. If Grandfather had – done something. to Hound. Then – Damian swallowed uneasily and forced his thoughts away from that path.

He knocked on the door to Grandfather’s study. His nails dug into his palms, white-knuckled and shaking.

“Come in, Grandson,” and was it his imagination that insisted dark satisfaction lined that voice? Damian opened the door a crack and slid inside, closing the door behind him. The room smelled of fresh spilled blood.

“Grandfather.” _What have you done? Where is Hound? Where is my friend?_ He swallowed back his plaintive questions. He’d known the answers as soon as he set foot in this room. His heart hurt. “May I see him?”

The look on Grandfather’s face was terrible to behold. There was a cruel anticipation to it that chilled Damian to the core. Grandfather nodded, not saying anything more. Damian slowly approached, near paralyzed by the sudden knowledge of how close he was to a vastly superior predator. He skirted around the desk and took a breath to brace himself. He looked.

“Oh, Hound.” Damian’s throat went tight. He knelt next to his injured tutor, hands skimming the air above Hound’s injuries. Grandfather had torn out the stitches Damian had put in. The gash was already puffy with infection, oozing blood and clear yellow pus. Hound’s back was covered with dozens of long, narrow welts and his throat was marked with vivid purple bruising. His expression blank except for the sharpness of his eyes as he knelt beside Ra's' desk. Damian reached to brush blood-tangled hair from his eyes, to examine what injuries were hidden beneath his tangled hair.

Grandfather caught his wrist in a crushing grip and pulled him away from Hound. “I’ve been merciful with you, Grandson, because you are young and of my blood. Do not test me.”

Grandfather prodded Hound with his shoe, unmindful of his injuries. Hound made a noise of pain low in his throat, like a beaten dog. When he rose to his feet, his face was emptier than Damian had ever seen it. His eyes were closed and shuttered, flat and featureless as dull stone.

Damian choked down a sob. _Hound. Hound, what has he done to you?_

“Your lessons are over.” Ra’s said. _No!_ “Damian will be taught by a new tutor and you are to return to your normal routine.”

Hound bowed subserviently. “As you command, Master.”

In that moment, Damian hated his Grandfather more deeply than he had ever hated anything in his life.

***

“I am sorry, master,” Hound murmured, after Damian had left, not looking up at Ra's. “I overstepped.”

Ra's raised an eyebrow, indulgently amused. “Are you, pet?”

Tension slide from Hound's shoulders, and he shook his head. “No. Not truly. I accept the consequences of my disobedience.” As did his master. Such were the realities of their long acquaintance. Punishment had been dealt, and now Hound was forgiven. Grudges and remembered mistakes were not their way.

“Your soft spot for my grandson is noted. How has he earned such loyalty?” Ra's asked, tapping Hound's shoulder in absent command. Hound made a noise of assent, and leaned against the desk so Ra's could untangle his bloodied hair.

“He is your heir. He has potential to be great.” Hound looked at Ra's from beneath his lashes. “But I am in your service, I have not forgotten that.”

“You never do, my Hound.”


End file.
